Moist Lips and The Sacred Monkey

We walk another block, then just before we get to our door, Alexandra says: "And for the next two weeks, she'll close and lock the door in her bathroom at home and examine and re-examine her naked ass in the mirror, as the slap marks fade. And she'll think of you and your marvelous dick until the day she dies."

* * *

Since we never got around to the Bavarian mousse croissants and champagne, that becomes breakfast for us late the next morning as Alexandra and I sit again out on the balcony. The sky is covered with low, ominous charcoal black clouds. A steady drizzle commences. We sit watching.

I'm mostly dressed. Alexandra has on the kimono, not bothering to tie it closed. She wants me to see her exposed. Her pale breasts and dark nipples peek out from the front opening as she leans this way or that on the divan. To avoid the rain's mist, she pulls her feet up on the seat and sits cross-legged, deliberately letting me see her pussy and blond pubic hair. Her body is beautiful. I never tire of seeing it. And I can still smell the sex and sweat on her from our night with Mrs. Anderson. It is divine.

As she's pouring us refills on our champagne, I ask again about The Sacred Monkey. She's not going to tell me, she says. I don't give up.

"Alexandra, you don't seriously have some fascination with Voodoo, do you? I mean, isn't all that bad juju stuff a bit sketchy?"

"In New York people laugh about Voodoo, if it's ever mentioned at all." she says. "But not here, not in New Orleans. Here, you laugh at your own peril."

"You're too smart to believe in that silliness," I say.

"You think?" she asks. She's not smiling.

"How do you think we got your Mrs. Anderson to let us seduce her last night? You think it was luck?" Still no smile.

"Didn't you see me dabbing my ears with the potion? It was Kus Kus and musk oil. You were watching, weren't you, when I stared into Mary's eyes as we talked during the stripper's songs? She couldn't take her eyes off mine. Why do you think she was so willing to do anything after that?"

I am horrified, a little angry, and for the moment speechless. We later pack our two shoulder bags to head to the airport and back to Manhattan. We head down the stairs and are out on the street, walking toward a line of taxis a few blocks away.

Still, I had to ask. "Are those real Voodoo dolls? And that musk oil you put on? Surely you're not saying you put her under some spell to let us fuck her? . . . Alexandra?"

She can see the dread on my face. She stops her walk, looks at me in exasperation. "Oh, Albert. The dolls are for my Moist Lips act. And the musk oil wasn't musk oil, just Gucci -- my perfume. I'm just jerking your chain. You've been reading those old Anne Rice novels about vampires in New Orleans, haven't you?"

She's right. I have. Thought I'd bone up on The Big Easy for our trip down here. Guess my imagination got the best of me. She begins laughing. She can't stop, laughing so hard she bends over, drops her luggage on the sidewalk and just guffaws at my fears. I laugh too. I have to admit, it is funny. And I like to see her laugh. It makes me laugh even more.

"You are so gullible," she says, wiping tears from her eyes. "That's what I love about you."

We walk on. We stop at the first taxi in line. Alexandra slides into the cab's back seat, I toss our bags into the front seat next to the driver, then walk around to the other side of the taxi and open its rear door. I think to myself that it's been a great trip, after all.

I'm standing by the open taxi door. I hear it. No, I sense it first. Then hear it. Just now. Very low. Guttural. Yes, I caught the end of it. It sounded like someone in the last stages of agony. But I know it's not a human sound. I look back over my shoulder and see -- the three-story LaLaurie Mansion. The haunted one. We had just walked past it on the sidewalk, without realizing. And the noise coming from it was a long, low moan. No one else is around to hear it. Only Alexandra and I walked past its front door.

I'm flooded with coldness and nausea, just all of the sudden. I look up at the old, gray house in the misty rain, wipe droplets from my eyes, wonder if those upper floor windows are looking back at me. I swear they are, but not exactly at me. Instead, looking beside me, into the taxi's rear window at the back of Alexandra's head with her fedora. It was definitely a low moan.

"Albert, the driver's waiting."

I slide into the car seat, can feel and see myself shaking. Alexandra scoots over to be beside me, not seeming to notice. Uncharacteristically, she puts her arm through my arm and surprises me by actually holding my hand. It is nothing other than affection. A first for us. I should be thrilled. She kisses me on the cheek. As I turn to ask what brought this on, she pecks my lips with hers. Pulls back and smiles. Her eyes are warm and loving.

"I am so smitten with you Albert." She rests her head on my shoulder.

As we pull away from the curb, she lifts her head, glances behind us and out the rear window at the mansion. Then, she turns back. Her eyes meet mine. No words. We are momentarily wondering what the other is thinking. Surely, she can sense my fear. If so, she doesn't acknowledge.

"Let's go home," she says, puts her head back on my shoulder. I nod my head in agreement, slowly but more cautious than ever before. I say nothing. What else is there to do?

But with her head on my shoulder I begin to smell a faint muskiness in her hair. Like some old root or plant that is decaying.

end